Storytellersunplugged

Frank T. Wydra

I’m late, I’m late for a very important date. All the seats around the Gonquin table are filled. Ted Geisel sits in the chair I usually occupy, sketchbook resting on the table’s edge. Tall, lanky Charley Dodgson is perched across from him. I find a vacant chair at a table across the way and shoehorn in between Papa and Edgar. Al, ever alert, is there with my Jack-on-the-Rocks before I can say “happy unbirthday.”

As is her wont, Mary is stimulating the synapses, saying, “I think we are agreed that all great literature has at its core a theme, some belief the author holds dear. My question is, does the theme shape the story or vice versa?”

At this, Ted, who has been sketching members of the gallery as worm-like creatures in funny-hats, says. “On the other hand, though. I had a dream without a theme. It did not seem to dull my gleam.”

Papa chortles. Then, “That was good. You do that on the spur?”

Ted smiles, as if the question is childish.

Bram says, “I always start with a theme. To me, it is much easier to have the story flow from an understanding of a point I wish to make rather than the reverse.”

Charley, who is eyeing a pubescent innocent, snaps back into the conversation, “If you don’t know where you are going, any road will get you there.”

Edgar who caught my glance at Charley leans over and whispers, “Young thing, there, probably has no idea that Carroll is no more than a Latinized name for Charles.”

I say, “Latin is out of fashion.”

“As are themes,” he says.

Ted says, “No matter what you do, somebody always imputes meaning into your books. One of my best books had no theme, all I wanted to do was write a book using no more than fifty words.”

Mary claps her hands. “Green Eggs and Ham. How I loved it.” She smiles forgivingly at him. “But there was a theme.”

“Oh?” Bram says?

“Why yes,” says Mary, “a profound theme. Remember how it ends. Their little world is in disarray and at that point what’s his name puts his prejudice aside, eats the eggs, and finds there is hope.”

“Ted says, “I meant what I said and I said what I meant. I start drawing, and eventually the characters involve themselves in a situation. Then in the end, I go back and try to cut out most of the preachments. If there are themes, they evolve.”

Papa says, “Well, that may work for you. But for me, I’m like Bram. I start with the idea and then drape clothes on it.”

Charley says, “Everything’s got a moral, if only you can find it.”

Al surveying the table to gauge the need for libation says, “Well now, morals and themes are different. A moral dwells on good or evil. A theme, on the other hand, is the thread of an idea and focuses only on morality at the behest of the writer.”
We all look at him. He raises an eyebrow, the hint of a smile insinuates itself on his face, yet to the casual observer he is doing no more than polling for drink orders. But there are no casual observers at this table.

Mary says, “My books all start with a premise that shapes the characters, environment, and plot. In Mathilda the theme was the misery of incest. I even sub-titled my monster book as The Modern Prometheus to emphasize the theme of overreaching technological striving.

Ted says, “That’s because you care. Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not. Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite. Or waiting around for Friday night or waiting perhaps for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil or a better break or a string of pearls or a pair of pants or a wig with curls or another chance. Everyone is just waiting. And that is as it should be. As a writer, you are the one who’ll decide where to go.

“It sounds,” Charley says, “as if you contradict yourself. Are you now saying that theme drives the story? To me, that it is like my little Alice who came to a fork in the road and saw a Cheshire cat in a tree. ‘Which road do I take?’ she asked. ‘Where do you want to go?’ was his response. ‘I don’t know,’ Alice answered. ‘Then,’ said the cat, ‘it doesn’t matter.’”

“Contradiction is benediction,” Ted objects, penciling in a snout on the sketch he is making of Charlie, “You can get help from teachers, but you are going to have to learn a lot by yourself, sitting alone in a room. Where you start is where you are. For me, I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living; it’s a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, and that enables you to laugh at life’s realities.”

Papa whacks his pipe on the table and says, “As I was saying, even though it is my practice, starting with a theme is out of fashion. Now it is all plot or character, theme be damned. It’s as if writers think readers are content with marshmallows, all sugar and air.”

“It’s what the market demands,” Bram says. “People have no time for deep, philosophical reflection.”

Edgar says, “The most effective themes are those inferred from the story rather than explicitly offered. It is a harder, more rigorous method but more suited to storytelling.”

Ted says, “Preachers in pulpits talk about what a great message is in the book. It’s all inference.”

“Perhaps, as is the case with friend Ted, here,” Charley says, “writers have learned to take care of the sense knowing that the sounds will take care of themselves. All they need to do is, always speak the truth, think before they speak, and write it down afterwards. Today most writers pursue not an idea but a dollar. They are not philosophers, but entertainers.”

Ted draws a sparkle on the caricature of Charley’s nose. “Ah, the market. It rules. Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the thinks you can think up if only you try! Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind. Today was good. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one. That’s how the market is. When at last we are sure, you’ve been properly pilled, then a few paper forms, must be properly filled, so that you and your heirs, may be properly billed. That’s what the market thinks.”

Mary, frown creasing her brow, asks, “Are you saying that serious writers are becoming irrelevant?”

Ted says, “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”

“I don’t believe it’s over,” Charley says. “There are many today who write of profound themes. While the laughter of joy is in full harmony with our deeper life, the laughter of amusement should be kept apart from it.”

“The trouble,” Papa says, “is that the serious writers are not read with any frequency.”

“Perhaps,” Mary says, “They would be better read if they, like Ted here, were more entertaining.”

“What you need to remember,” Ted says, handing a sketch of a horrid looking writer to Mary, “is that adults are obsolete children.”

Al, leaning over to take a closer look at the cartoon, says, “Nice likeness.”

Note: Most of Geisel’s and Dodgson’s observations are quotes from things they have said or written, and, as usual, seasoned to the taste of this writer.”

frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Wednesday, June 13, 2007